“Who’s Taking Care of You?” Myself.

By Sara Woznicki

I used to shrug when people asked if I was a feminist. Sure, we deserve equal rights. But I’m not in the mood to go on and on about it. High school me thought feminists were the ones on man hunts. Burning bras. Smoking cigs to show we can. Nothing that struck home with me.

Then college happened. We’re not getting paid equally. When we’re tough, it’s because we’re a bitch or PMSing, but when a man is, he’s a bo$$. That glass ceiling is staring us all in the face, remindng us of our terminal position looming barely one step ahead. We can’t take our birth control in public without people getting offended. If we need something done, we either assume the bitch role, or need bat our eye lashes like we’re helpless.

But what’s annoyed me most lately was the question,

“Who’s taking care of you?”

Maybe in context it’ll make more sense.

I needed to get a chunk from the roof of my mouth chopped off and sewn into the bottom of my gums. It wasn’t fun.

After the procedure, I drove myself home, put on a chick flick, drank some water, let some water drool right out the other side of my mouth and ate some pudding. I even microwaved a banana so I could gum it better. (And no, I wouldn’t suggest microwaved bananas).

I didn’t love the day, as my face was numb for most of it from the novocaine, and I kept drooling like a little baby. However, it wasn’t terrible either. I had lots of alone time that I never get, and comparatively speaking, it hurt way less than the mirror falling on my leg or getting my wisdom teeth out.

Before and after the survey, people asked me, “Who’s taking care of you,” or “Who took care of you?”

Nope, even in context the question is still largely condescending.

Me? I did? Are we shocked that was able to drive myself to a procedure, then home AND survive for one entire day without the supervision of someone?

“Why didn’t you get someone to come help you?”

Do I really need a person to come watch me drool for an entire day? I did get a supervisor for my wisdom teeth extraction, only because it was medically advised AND I wasn’t allowed to drive. There is no other reason I’d want someone sitting there with me as I ice my face on and off for an entire day while drooling on myself. I don’t need witnesses to that horror.

Okay, so maybe you think I’m fretting over something that isn’t actually sexist, but when men get procedures done, I don’t hear the first thing people asking them is who helped them along the way.

Betch — I helped myself out along the way.

Well, and my roommate and sister who cooberated to get me flowers. And Cazey for bringing me (low cal!) ice cream so as to not spoil my diet. Getting help from people along the way is great, but why is it assumed that I couldn’t have gone through this independently? I’m a big girl now, and I can handle my own shit, thank you very much.

Dairy Queen’s 75th Anniversary Did Not Happen in Davie, FL

By Cazey Williams

Last Monday was Dairy Queen’s 75th anniversary or something like that. The more important thing is, they were giving away free cones.

I happened to be in Florida visiting two friends, so I relayed this joyous news to them, and we drove to DQ. Now we arrive, and it’s apparent this news is not secret because everyone and their mother, father, dog, cousin, and future children are there.

We haven’t been in line more than a minute when the cashier announces, “We are out of cones. We have no more free cones. The deal is over.”

Meanwhile, over this woman’s shoulder, we can see this is a blatant lie: The cones are in full view. Would she give me one if I offered her $2.39? And I did wonder how much DQ could be making if all this people and their unborn kids are only getting free cones and leaving without buying anything else – but that’s not my issue. You can’t just cancel the deal.

Thankfully, there are similar thinkers in Davie, FL. Ones that look like leather purses, according to my friend, because Florida. Either way, this woman demands, “Well, we can get it in a cup then?”

Cashier: “I’m not allowed to do that. It’s my manager’s orders.”

Woman: “Can I talk to the manager? This is a national deal. We came for free cones.”

Cashier: “The manager isn’t in right now.” (Of course she isn’t.)

Woman: “What’s her name?”

Cashier: “Barbara.”

Now somehow this woman finagled two small plastic cups of ice cream for herself and her husband. I worried momentarily she was involving my group of friends in this, because we had jested we were here for the cones (it actually wasn’t a jest; we really were), but I was like, I’d rather not be associated with Mrs. Leather Purse Skin; I’ll fight my own battles.

Of course this prompted others to try similar tactics to which the cashier announced she would lose her job if she gave out any more cones or plastic cups; Barbara would fire her.

When my friends and I reached the cashier, we opted for the buy-one-get-one-free deal on a blizzard. But I asked: “Can we get a free cone with that?”

Cashier deadpans me.

Me: “I mean, we’re buying something.”

Cashier: “I will lose my job.”

Me: “Tell Barbara she made a lot of fans tonight.”

So you would think this story ends here. However, I have seen the common people stick it to the man through social media, and I am not about to see an anniversary decimated by the likes of Barbara. So I find their Facebook page.

The most recent review is from – wait for it – a woman named Barbara. She writes: “Great atmosphere employees are absolutely wonderful the food is great and best of all the blizzards are awesome!” She also gave it five stars.

I comment, “Are you the manager?”

I then add my own review: “Well, let me tell you: Tonight my two friends and I doted on your establishment expecting free small cones because that was the national promise for your 75th anniversary. However, we were told that the manager Barbara had called off this anniversary, as if she could erase 75 years’ worth of history, and the cashier would be fired if she gave us a free cone. And then, to add to the travesty, we saw the cashier hand a woman a blizzard, turning it upside down – AND IT SPILLED OUT. But the cashier responds, ‘You weren’t supposed to see that.’ Where was their free blizzard? Barbara, I’m waiting for your answer.”

I gave them to two stars, which corresponds to “subpar.” I’m not that worried about ruining DQ’s reputation, because it’s common knowledge that they have the cheapest best soft serve. I just have a cone to pick with Barbs. I also am hoping for free DQ for a year.

This morning I woke up to a notification. Barbara responded to whether or not she was the manager. “Yes,” she wrote.

Stalk Me If You Wanna Meet Me

By Cazey Williams

I liked her best friend, so obviously I had stalked her, too. After all, no one is safe when you’re infatuated and can’t sleep on a Monday night. But I was both impressed and flattered when she acknowledged she had done the same to me. Not that I expected differently.

“Oh, that’s right,” she interrupted me after asking what I studied. “I saw that on Facebook.”

Check your friend requests: The Age of Social Media Sleuthing is upon us. In fact, it’s anticipated.

In college, my friend and I used to race to see which of us could find a person online faster – we chose our victim from those whom we eavesdropped on at bars. LinkedIn’s advent made that game boring. These days, I can Facebook stalk my brunch waitress while I wait for my pancakes and contemplate adding her since she did tell me her favorite drink here and her boyfriend likes hiking. We could hang out, right?

While social media stalking used to be a late night hobby (in 2011!), these days it’s par for the course – the digital age’s version of peeking in one’s medicine cabinet. Except it’s neither rude nor taboo. Indeed, I’m offended if you haven’t stalked me.

Last week I realized I knew not even the last name of a woman whom I was messaging on a dating app. I clearly was not interested in her if I could not take the time to Google her first name + occupation + where she went to school. Because we all know if I had, a buffet of her 411 would have been at my fingertips. Maybe even her other dating profiles. (That happened once. I consequently browsed the person’s Plenty of Fish personality report.)

This summer, while out of town on business, I met a woman whose looks besotted me. Unfortunately, I had to leave after two days, and I had nothing but her name and where she received her masters to remember her by. Two hours later, I knew her hometown, where she lived in undergrad (Google Map images too!), and that she was heiress to a major dairy brand. And I am 99.9% confident that Danielle does not have a Facebook, Instagram, or Pinterest because a.) I couldn’t find it, which means it does not exist, and b.) she has no picture on LinkedIn, so she obviously doesn’t invest much in her online image.

LinkedIn is the breadcrumb trail for finding someone online. Every part of your standard introduction is logged there: Name, location, job, and hobbies relabeled as skills. In online dating, this makes asking someone what they do (if it’s not already listed in their profile) akin to saying, “Might I have your social security number?”

Some dating apps already expedite the process by listing mutual friends. Forget you if you block people from searching your Facebook friends. Otherwise, click, click, and hi, Katie from OkCupid – you have the same profile picture here as on there.

I generally stalk someone because a.) they’ve emailed me one too many times, and I want to see who is this bugger, or b.) we’re talking through a dating app, and I need to evaluate whether their dating profile matches their real profile, and are you as good at crafting a superficial image as a millennial should be? Or maybe you’re a lock-down guru, and I can see nothing, not even a cover photo. Like, I can’t even find the “Add Friend” button. Do you have a dangerous ex?

So where does all this leave us? Let’s start by acknowledging we’ve stalked each other. When you mention you spent a summer abroad in Australia, I won’t pretend I didn’t see the cover photo of you scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef. And you can admit you stalked me, too. I might even like you more because of it.

Brunch Review: Urban Farmhouse

By Sara Woznicki

If there is one brunch review that’s been a long time coming, it’s the review for Urban Farmhouse. Why, you might ask? Because that iconic (can I say anything about our blog is iconic? Probably not, but anyways) image in the header of our entire blog is from Urban Farmhouse (see below — well and above).

We should probably begin this review with the reason we selected Urban Farmhouse for our blog launch (and subsequent blog image). First off, Cazey frequents Urban Farmhouse due to the proximity to other locations Cazey hangs out at, so he suggested it because it was well-lit and there were couches and outlets, which makes it a good place to post up for a while and work. It really was a wonderful place to hang out for awhile, as they had a free water stand (love that I don’t have to ask anyone for refills) and there were a ton of windows, making it a really picturesque area to sit.

as told over brunchTo the left is a picture of Cazey’s meal, which was bagel and lox. The colors make the imagery really strong, hence using it as a header picture for our entire re-brand. I honestly never asked him how it tasted, but I would assume that it tasted like any bagel or lox that you’d order, which isn’t a bad thing because I LOVE BAGELS AND LOX, and I love the fact that I somewhat encouraged Cazey’s love for it too. I was also a little jealous that he got oranges with his meal, and I got carrots covered in a vinegar sauce. That’s as good a segue as we’re going to get into what I ate.

Q Bleu Chicken sandwichQ Bleu Chicken

I ordered the Q Bleu Chicken sandwich and an iced chai latte. As you can see in the picture to the left, it’s lacking in the meat department. It was mostly bread, and barely had any sauce. I’m a HUUUGE buffalo chicken buff, and this fell way short of expectations. It didn’t have a lot of flavor, and I was starving soon after eating it. For almost $10, I would not buy this sandwich again. On top of it, I ordered an iced chai latte, which clocked in at almost $5 and was worth at best $1. It also wasn’t very flavorful and was heavy on the ice.

While all this sounds super negative, I did go back to Urban Farmhouse, and had a much better experience the second time, when I ordered the Tarragon Tuna Salad sandwich with water (instead of an expensive beverage). I left that time very pleased with my choice. I was nervous about the sandwich, because it was tarragon-based (duh, hence the name), and I can’t ever decide if I like tarragon, but it was excellent. The flavor was pretty strong, and made an every day tuna salad sandwich something worth talking about.

I do still whine a bit about portion size, because you don’t get any sides, and they still are a bit light on the meat. However, you do also feel light and happy leaving because you didn’t overeat. So it’s a win and a loss at the same time. My general recommendation would be to bring a book, computer or friend and go to Urban Farmhouse for the atmosphere. It’s a very chill spot with good food. Just not a lot of good food served at one time.

Throwback Thursday: That Time Cazey and Sara Went on a Valentine’s Day Date

By Sara Woznicki and Cazey Williams

February 14: Single’s Awareness Day, also known as Valentine’s Day for those in a relationship. Most of those people who are single feel themselves falling into the ‘Single’s Awareness Day,’ but not me. No — I encouraged/forced my blog’s baby daddy to take me on a date. A real, legit date.

Why? Because I deserve it, and we both deserve a day dedicated to our best friendship.

I encouraged Cazey to take the stereotypical male role and asked him to make us a reservation in advance (forethought proves he cares), pick me up at my doorstep with flowers in hand and pay for my meal. He complied with almost half, which sounds about average for what I may expect from a normal male date, so I’ll take it.

Cazey attempted to make reservations at the location we selected together (after Cazey took the lead and made some suggestions), but they didn’t take reservations, so we planned to leave early so we could get right in. A plan, several weeks in advance – quite a commitment.

We didn’t get there early enough, however, and the line was out the door. So we walked to a mid-level nice restaurant down the street. We got a table because it was early, but promptly left when we realized they only had an expensive menu for the evening ($75? Gag). Third time’s a charm though, and we got into another restaurant, no problem. They even had their normal menu so we wouldn’t break the bank.

The date was really nice. We split a bottle of Blue Bee cider, shared a cheese and bread plate and then split a salmon dish. The food was excellent and exactly what I would have wanted out of a Valentine’s Day meal, except we went dutch on the bill since Cazey didn’t want to entirely assume the male stereotype. I can hope for next time, right?

(No, she can’t, says Cazey.)

Also, don’t order Blue Bee cider unless you like your drinks dry. Which Sara does. Cazey does not. He had to stop Sara from ordering the extra dry cider or the one that tasted “like beer” (because some of us drink cider because we don’t like beer, e.g. Cazey).

Now that I’ve been on a very stereotypical Valentine’s Day date, I can officially say that Valentine’s Day is nice. It gave Cazey and I a reason to try a new restaurant and actually commit to doing something weeks in advance (rather than Cazey just letting himself into our house). However, that meal would have tasted just as good any other day of the year and would have been less stressful.

However, it did clarify one thing: For those people who claim that because Cazey and I are best friends, we are eventually going to end up together, I think we all just proved that isn’t going to happen. We went out on the most romantic day of the year together (says Hallmark) and came home happily and separately. Take that, Cupid.

Confession: I Ran a Secret Society’s Twitter That I Wasn’t In

By Cazey Williams

At my undergrad, we had a secret society that recognized members of our campus every semester. Let’s call it ZZZ. As is the case with most secret societies, ZZZ membership was secret.

My junior year of college, I decided to make ZZZ a Twitter account. No, I was not part of the secret society. I just realized they lacked social media presence, so why not give back?

Our first tweet (our being just me representing this secret society I had no affiliation with) was, “We’re watching you.” Someone retweeted it. Fool.

We then tweeted, “Congratulations to the people we recognized today!” I had to feign a bit of legitimacy. Then I went on a following spree.

The night after I made the Twitter, I ran into my friend at the grocery store. She excitedly told me, “ZZZ followed me on Twitter! Do you think I’m going to get recognized?”

Me: “No way! That’s so cool! I didn’t know they had a Twitter.”

Several days later, we needed to maintain legitimacy and act somewhat benevolent, so we tweeted, “Remember to keep your school spirit alive even in the stress of finals!” and “Let us know what acts of kindness you see around campus and what you want to see happening!” As if I had that power. Brb, just gonna call up my fellow members.

Eventually people started tweeting at me – I guess because they believed I was actually the secret society. #ForTheWin

One person said: “Thank you so much to ZZZ for validating what I do, giving back will never leave you with less #touched #inspired #makeadifference” Aw.

Tricia tweeted us: “I’ve done so much research to figure out how to become a part of this prestigious group and have gotten nowhere. Almost a senior!” Girl, just make them an Instagram.

The worst I ever did with the Twitter was promote when a prominent student organization on our campus would be choosing members. Alas, this prominent organization was known for its snobbish selection process (okay, I’m biased): On the second Wednesday of the spring semester, they would either come find you to publicly celebrate your acceptance – or they would tape a big fat rejection letter to your door so everyone knew you didn’t get in. I guess they’ve never heard of email?

They thought this night was some secret. “No one knows when we’re coming,” I imagine them whispering to themselves as they throw on cloaks. (They didn’t wear cloaks.) Except if you had a memory, you’d realize every year it was the second Wednesday of the spring semester.

So what did ZZZ tweet? “This Wednesday, a lot of big announcements are going to be made” followed by, “Let’s just say, keep your doors open tomorrow. You don’t want to find a letter on it at the end of the day.”

It wasn’t a total callout.

Otherwise, I was a fairly ethical proprietor of the Twitter. I retweeted stuff about student org nights, community service events, and congratulations whenever my secret society recognized people. (I never identified how they chose who they recognized or what night they did it on – because I didn’t know.) Okay, and I heavily retweeted and favorited stuff done by the two organizations I was president of. It always amazed me no one guessed who was behind the Twitter.

In fact, I worried the secret society would find me. They weren’t known for entombing people in walls or throwing acid, but ya never know. I doubt anyone had ever infiltrated them before like I did. However, only once was I contacted: A student government leader direct messaged me, “Please delete this account. ZZZ is a prestigious group that honors dedicated people on this campus. This is not helping their good cause.” But I’m not hurting it either . . . .

Anyway, it’s time to give up my front. My friend discovered my secret the other day when she saw, among my seven email accounts, one was ZZZ’s.

My friend: “Were you in it?!”

Me: ” . . . No. Oops.” *Lena Dunham Shrug*

So last night I issued my last tweet: “It’s coming.” As of this morning, it has two favorites.

Easy Come, Easy Go: A Weight-Loss Truth

By Sara Woznicki

I’ve been in the heat of my Biggest Loser weight-loss challenge now for about a month and a half. If you want to read about how awesome it feels when dieting works, read my previous progress report. If you want to read how it feels when you realize that dieting is hard — really, really hard, stay with me here.

Yup, you heard it hear first: Losing weight is work. Shocking, right?

Okay, no, it’s not shocking in the least. But it is something to constantly remind yourself to consider. This past week, I had two really bad days of eating.

cheat day #1.

Cheat day #1 included cookies baked in a pan with Oreos and brownies on top. Then we added ice cream. And this dessert followed huge handfuls of Smart Food popcorn, which was preceded by wine tasting, a big lunch salad and huevos rancheros for breakfast. Damn, all that food and I almost left out the pizza, chicken bites and rice crispy that I munched on too.

That day was horrible. Also, I didn’t work out that day.

cheat day #2.

The next day was less horrible, but it involved chips, a crab dip and chicken sandwich, burger, beer, fries and a fried Oreo.

Still pretty awful, especially once you reflect upon it all in succession of only being two days apart.

So that’s two bad days out of seven, and that week concluded with two additional pounds added to me in my diet. I did pay for it though. My body is no longer used to total shit all the time, and I was laid up like I had a nine-month baby baking inside me. I felt like what you’d expect me to feel like after all that shit I consumed. I also almost shared too much information that went along the same lines as shit. Anyways…

It wasn’t good, and the scale confirmed that. It’s just crazy to think that you can be great (well, not perfect but pretty good) for 5 days and bad for two and backtrack so heavily. On the other side of the argument though, I did lose six pounds in one week of the diet in the beginning, which seems pretty absurd because it wasn’t like I did any unhealthy juice cleanse or stopped eating during that time. I just ate good things and didn’t eat the bad stuff and went to the gym a bit more. It all seemed so simple then.

All this taught me something though: moderation is key (here’s looking at you, cheat day #1), but mainly that weight loss is easy. There, I said it. But the downside to that is that weight gain is just as easy. Dropping 17 pounds seemed easy when I was consciously thinking of what I should and shouldn’t eat at every meal, but gaining two pounds was equally easy to do when I stopped thinking all the time.

When I walk away from the Biggest Loser at the end of this month, I hope I takeaway with me the ability to live a healthy lifestyle, and not a mentality of dieting. When I lost six pounds, I was neurotic about it — it wasn’t a habit I could maintain long-term. Now is the time I need to transition to a sustainable plan of little splurges in a sea of good healthy eating choices.

This won’t be the end of my lifestyle change. I have other goals I’d like to tackle on top of maintaining my new, thinner figure. Like my undefined calves. I’ll be doing leg lifts until I get those puppies under control.

The Day the Sky Fell

By Cazey Williams

This past weekend my friend and I almost died.

On Friday night, my friend and I decided we should put on clothes and actually do something rather than laying our respective couch and bed. Options are limited when it’s after 9 PM and you don’t feel like drinking: This led to us getting froyo and heading to the Byrd.

Now for those of you not from Richmond, VA, the Byrd is a historic movie theatre. By historic, I mean it opened in 1928 (more on this later). Notable amenities include: It’s open 365 days a year. It shows cheap movies ($1.99!). And it has a Wurlitzer organ*. As of late, the theatre has been undergoing renovations. A huge fundraising project is underway to restore the Byrd to its former glory. (They need to move faster.)

(*Locals and music buffs will harp about this damned organ. Just know it’s a special organ and it takes four rooms to house it. Meanwhile, the organ in my grandmother’s house only needs a corner. And every Saturday night this man plays the organ and everyone cheers and gets teary-eyed. Meanwhile, I Snapchat how annoyed I am. Can we get to the motion picture? I’d rather be behind toddlers pushing carts on the most crowded aisle in the grocery store. It’s the same tune every week!)

Anyway, my friend and I caught the 9:30 PM showing of “Wild,” the Reese Witherspoon nature walk movie. (I give it three-and-a-half stars.) For once in my life, they didn’t play the organ. *crosses self*

So we’re watching the movie, it’s about halfway through (Reese has a few toe blisters), when something crashes down from the above. We whip around. What the heck was that? There’s nothing to be seen, but we all heard it. One woman – an innocent patron like ourselves – hurries over to investigate. I consider whether a person may have tossed a purse or a baby from the balcony above. On the latter, I didn’t hear it cry.

My friend whispers, “I’m afraid something is going to fall on us again.”

The end of the movie arrives. I have almost forgotten about the commotion until I see the aforementioned woman exploring the floor behind us along with a few others. There’s some white chunks on the ground. Those white chunks are grout. From the ceiling.

The ceiling had fallen on us.

And when I say “on us,” it missed my friend by two seats. The chunks ranged from two to five inches long and at least two inches thick.

While the theatre’s restoration is in the works, I didn’t know it was this urgent. As in, you can watch the building fall apart while watching your feature presentation.

PTSD begins to set it. A man picks up one of the chunks and offers it to me. Holy crap, it weighs something. And it fell from about forty feet above us.

Me: “Oh my God, it could have killed us.”

We gaze up. Indeed, you can see white pockets where the ceiling has crumbled. It looks like a quarry.

“I want to keep this,” I decide of the chunk. A souvenir from the historic Byrd.

We begin to head out. My friend asks if we should tell someone. “We could have died,” she reiterates.

“Maybe we should,” I agree, “but I don’t want them to take my chunk away.”

We tell our ticket taker, this woman in a big hat: “Hi, while we were watching the movie, um, a part of the ceiling fell down. On us.” I show her my chunk, and she takes it.

You can tell she is like, “Uh . . . ” before she says, “Really? I’m sorry that happened. I’ll look into it.”

Personally, I’d look up, not into.

Me: “Can I keep that? The piece of the ceiling?”

The woman stares at me. “I’d rather you not.”

I wish I fought her on this. If I’m going to almost die and not demand a refund for my ticket, you’d think I could at least keep a piece of my near death experience. Then again, at least my friend and I survived.

Brunch Review: Godfreys Drag Brunch

By Sara Woznicki

Cazey being fed by a drag queenThis is going to be a tough brunch review to write, because when you go to Godfreys’ for brunch, you almost forget that you’re there for a meal. Sure, they serve food (and sometimes serve it directly to you, as you can see on the right), and you 100% have to buy food, but it was just food. So instead of writing a review where I document exactly what I ate and show how delicious it was through close-up Instagram-worthy images of my meal, this review is going to be a little bit different. Here’s what you need to know about Drag Queen brunch at Godfreys.

Get a Reservation

The first thing to know about Godfreys’ brunch is: you need a reservation. And not in a way where it’d be suggested or ideal to have a reservation, but absolutely imperative that you get one. I’m pretty sure there are only 5 seats open at the bar for the losers who don’t make a reservation.

The lesson I learned in making a reservation, though, is that everyone sucks and no one honors a commitment, so you’ll end up scrambling day-of looking for replacements. So don’t be that person planning, or else it sucks, and don’t be the person who bails, because then you suck.

Dollar Bills are a Must: Make it Rain

drag queen at godfreysThe second thing you need to know about Godfreys’ brunch is: bring singles and bring cash. They don’t split checks, and Godfreys’ is best in a large group, so cash is essential. Also, if you want some drag lovin’, the singles are a must. And trust me — you want some attention. It’s better that way. They also deserve it with how freakin’ fabulous they look (exhibit A on the right).

Expect Nothing.

Without giving away the gold, I’m going to warn/encourage you: it’s more than you were expecting. Unless, that is, you naturally expect total entertainment for two hours. Because I didn’t expect it. I just sort of thought drag queens would bring you some food, and that is definitely not what happened. It was so. much. more.

Order a drank. Or two. Or three.

Like I said at the beginning, there is food here and you have to order it. However, there are drinks here and you have to order them, but not because that’s their rule, but because it’s my rule. I got a coffee drink and I’m pretty sure it was just warmed up liquor. However, I say that sentiment with love, because it was delicious. Also, when you’re in a situation where your expectations are set at “none,” you need a bit of alcohol to get ready for the show.

Know what you want before you show up. Or don’t care.

So my caveat: food and service is not what you come here for. As soon as you get seated, they come around to take orders. If you’re the first table (which we were), they’re at your table within one minute. We looked dumb as we tried to stumble through orders, and felt like we slowed down the entire process. So take a few minutes, look at their menu now and know what you want before you get there. Or just don’t care, because, like I said, the food is just food here. It’s edible, but nothing grand.

Back to the topic of drinks, they do come around while the show is going on, but they’re not circulating like normal waiters. So if you see them coming and need something, be slightly more aggressive than you normally would, such as rather than hoping you eyeing them from across the room is enough of a signal, wave your hand or hold up a glass. Something obvious but courteous.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Godfreys’ brunch is an experience that I strongly believe everyone in Richmond (and surrounding cities and states) should add to their bucket list. I’ve literally never been to anything remotely similar, and it’s worth the effort. Get on the phone, get a reservation, and get going to Godfrey’s

Swipe Right With Your Credit Card? You Can Now Pay for Tinder

TInder Plus

By Cazey Williams and Sara Woznicki

We’re surprised it’s not trending on Facebook yet, but Tinder – the grimier of today’s dating apps – has launched a subscription service. As in, you will need to pay to swipe right if you want certain perks. You know, because you’ve met so many gems on Tinder that a subscription will totally be worth it.

What does this mean for us American twenty-somethings?

Rewind your swipe. Is anyone invested enough that they need to pay $9.99/month to undo an accidental left swipe? I frigging hope not. We are not Rose on a door in the Atlantic crying, “Come back, Jack.” We will just swipe right to the next door. He’ll circle back to you eventually, anyway, and let’s be real, he probably wasn’t going to be that great. To the bottom of the cyber ocean he goes. Forget Jack.

Change your location. Wait, you mean I can swipe anywhere in the world now?! This is such a breakthrough! Especially since Tinder’s main selling point back in the day was finding people online near you. Guess not anymore. Now I can swipe through the Swedish locals looking for my high school crush who’s now an au pair! Or better yet, I can find Carmen Sandiego.

No ads. This should be a given. Anytime you pay for an app, there better be no pop-ups. But wait: Did Tinder have ads to begin with? Because I’m sorry, I would have swiped right to Papa John’s plenty of nights, but that was never an option.

Old people pay more. The monthly rate doubles once you reach 30. Though this could be called age-ism, it’s not like we can’t censor old people currently by adjusting our age preferences nor is it like old people can’t just lie about how old they really are. Currently this affects no one in the twenty-something bracket. (We did suffer momentary concern that we could be single at 30 and be on Tinder – concerned not about being single, but the fact we’re using Tinder at 30. We hope to migrate to eHarmony by then.)

Free “self-control.” This is actually part of free Tinder aka the unpaid version. You now have a limited number of swipes each day, which means we won’t stay up so late anymore judging the trout the guy is holding or the the duck face the woman is making. Though we will judge harder now, if we even thought that was possible.

All in all, we probably shouldn’t judge Tinder Plus so fast. In fact, we haven’t even used it. Sara suggested Cazey pay for Tinder Plus so we could legitimately review it. But no, not even for our dedicated readers were we going to drop an Alexander Hamilton for that sh*t.

So swipe right with your credit card at your own risk. Or maybe this could be a wake up call for us all to use that $9.99 we just saved from not using Tinder Plus to go buy a drink for the cutie at a bar instead of hoping we can swipe our way to victory with them.